Ditte: Girl Alive!

by Martin Andersen Nexø

She went outside, and stood gazing after them, as they tore along, kicking up the sand. Oh dear, Povl had dropped his bread and dripping in the sand—but he picked it up again and ran on, eating as he went. "It'll clean him inside," said Ditte, laughing to herself. They were mad, simply mad—digging in the sand and racing about! They had never been like this before.

She was glad of the change herself. Even if there had been any opportunity, she could not play; all desires had died long ago. But there was much of interest. All these crooked, broken-down moss-grown huts, clustered together on the downs under the high cliffs, each surrounded by its dust-heap and fish-refuse and implements, were to Ditte like so many different worlds; she would have liked to investigate them all.

It was her nature to take an interest in most things, though, unlike Kristian, she didn't care to roam about. He was never still for a moment; he had barely found out what was behind one hill, before he went on to the next. He always wanted to see beyond the horizon, and his father always said, he might travel round the whole world that way, for the horizon was always changing. Lars Peter often teased him about this; it became quite a fairy tale to the restless Kristian, who wanted to go over the top of every new hill he saw, until at last he fell down in the hamlet again—right down into Ditte's stew-pan. He had often been punished for his roaming—but to no good. Povl wanted to pick everything to pieces, to see what was inside, or was busy with hammer and nails. He was already nearly as clever with his hands as Kristian. Most of what he made went to pieces, but if a handle came off a brush, he would quickly mend it again. "He only pulls things to pieces so as to have something to mend again," said his father. Sister stood looking on with her big eyes.

Ditte was always doing something useful, otherwise she was not happy. With Granny's death, all her interest in the far-off had vanished; that there was something good in store for her she never doubted, it acted as a star and took away the bitterness of her gloomy childhood. She was not conscious of what it would be, but it was always there like a gleam of light. The good in store for her would surely find her. She stayed at home; the outside world had no attractions for her.

Her childhood had fallen in places where neighbors were few and far between. The more enjoyment it was to her now to have the society of others.

Ditte took a keen interest in her fellow-beings, and had not been many days in the hamlet before she knew all about most people's affairs—how married people lived together, and who were sweethearts. She could grasp the situation at a glance—and see all that lay behind it; she was quick to put two and two together. Her dull and toilsome life had developed that sense, as a reward for all she had gone through. There was some spite in it too—a feeling of vengeance against all who looked down on the rag and bone man, although they themselves had little to boast about.

The long, hunch-backed hut, one end of which the inn-keeper had let off to them, lay almost in the midst of the hamlet, just above the little bay. Two other families beside lived in the little hut, so they only had two small rooms and a kitchen to call their own, and Lars Peter had to sleep in the attic. It was only a hovel, "the workhouse" it was generally called, but it was the only place to be had, and they had to make the best of it, until Lars Peter could build something himself—and they might thank the inn-keeper that they had a roof above their heads. Ditte was not satisfied with the hut—the floors were rotten, and would not dry when she had washed them. It was no better than the Crow's Nest—and there was much less room. She looked forward to the new house that was to be built. It should be a real house, with a red roof glistening in the sun, and an iron sink that would not rot away.

But in spite of this she was quite happy. When she stood washing up inside the kitchen door, she could see the downs, and eagerly her eyes followed all who went to and fro. Her little brain wondered where they were going, and on what errand. And if she heard voices through the wall, or from the other end of the hut, she would stop in her work and listen breathlessly. It was all so exciting; the other families in the hut were always bustling and moving about—the old grandmother, who lay lame in bed on the other side of the wall, cursing existence, while the twins screamed at the top of their voices, and the Lord only knew where the daughter-in-law was, and Jacob the fisherman and his daughter in the other end of the hut. Suddenly, as one stood thinking of nothing at all, the inn-keeper would come strolling over the downs, looking like a goblin, to visit the young wife next door; then the old grandmother thumped on the floor with her crutch, cursing everything and everybody.

There was much gossip in the hamlet—of sorrow and shame and crime; Ditte could follow the stories herself, often to the very end. She was quick to find the thread, even in the most difficult cases.

Her life was much happier now: there was little to do in the house, and no animals to look after, so she had more time of her own. Her schooldays were over, and she was soon to be confirmed. Even the nag, whom at first she had been able to keep her eye on from the kitchen window, needed no looking after now. The inn-keeper had forbidden them to let it feed on the downs, and had taken it on to his own farm. There it had been during the winter, and they only saw it when it was carting sea-weed or bringing a load of fish from the beach for the inn-keeper. It was not well-treated in its present home, and had all the hard tasks given it, so as to spare the inn-keeper's own animals. Tears came into Ditte's eyes when she thought of it. It became like a beast of burden in the fairy tale, and no-one there to defend it. It was long since it had pulled crusts of bread from her mouth with its soft muzzle.